


The Essentialist

by billspilledquill



Category: A Place of Greater Safety - Hilary Mantel, French Revolution RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, you know something’s wrong when camille is the voice of reason
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-04-07 18:20:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14086833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/billspilledquill/pseuds/billspilledquill
Summary: There are people who want to live forever, then there’s Maximilien, who wants to live a little longer than this.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AStupidUserName420](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AStupidUserName420/gifts).



> Alternative title: Saint-Just can’t get his feelings together and also everything is terrible.
> 
> this is honestly kinda stupid. This fandom needs a stupid modern au. I apologize in advance for any historical inaccuracy. I believe that i am an expert at making up facts.

If there was a fact you should know about Maximilien Robespierre, remember this: he was ugly.

His eyes were green, pale and distinguishably bright, bulged out of his skull — always darting from place to place, but never to one’s face — his thin lips would often be bloodless or blushed with a sickly pink — a tremor would be found there when he would began to talk, dots marked face by childhood disease, a slight and thin stature, etc, etc. The list would go on.

A crater of the moon, you could say, cold and oblivious to the world.

Unfortunately for Saint-Just, he apparently only observed the first statement and stopped it there. How green and sea-like it appeared to be — how his quiet stature only seem to glow rather than diminish the light out of the man, how everything about Robespierre seem to be a gift of Aphrodite herself, every features carefully chosen to be prefect and flawless.

So let’s rewind and redeem, if there was a fact that Saint-Just want you to know about Robespierre, remember this: he was as beautiful as the first spring.

 

* * *

   
“Excuse me,” Saint-Just had said during their first meeting, “are you Maximilien Robespierre?”

The man turned, his uniform so clean that he might be mistaken for a first year student. He wasn’t so tall to be mistaken to a senior, neither. They met eyes for a second before Robespierre averted his, “Yes?”

“I’m Antoine de Saint-Just,” he said, trying not to sound hopeful, “I have wrote you a letter to join the meeting a year ago, since you are the president—“

“I’m not president of the committee, fellow student,” he frowned. Saint-Just flinched, and was about to apologize when he started talking, “but I remember your letter. It was full of passion and sincerity, I had always wanted to meet the writer in person.”

“I-I’m glad, Robespierre,” he said.

His green eyes shone, making Saint-Just miss the sea, “Just call me Maximilien.”

 

* * *

  
Camille was the first to comment on this madness, and of course it would be Camille of all people, “You know he already have a boyfriend, right? There’s also no way Max could date someone like you though, so no worry there, Saint-Just.”

His smile made him want to slam Desmoulins’ head on the wall.

University, contrary to popular belief, was a place where you could encounter your long-time crush and bastards, who, amazingly, can be best friend with the said crush.

“If there’s any other reason why you should be in my view, Desmoulins,” he said, “assure yourself that I will make it gone.”

But Camille wasn’t listening, his head turned toward a girl waving at him, a smile appeared on his face, “Coming, Lucile!”

Camille halted, smirked, “You know Max is here for the annual meeting, right? With Adrien, of course. Haven’t heard of him since his graduation, kept pushing back my requests.” He made a two finger salute, “I am sure they will thrilled to find you there.”

He left a soundless laugh, speed up and joined his beloved. Saint-Just can hear their chatter through the school halls. He felt his hands go cold.

He was going to kill Desmoulins.

 

* * *

  
“I can’t believe Robespierre never realized — didn’t you literally proposed to him during uni days?” Asked Danton, arms circling another poor lady, though she didn’t seem to mind.

“That was one time,” Saint-Just said through gritted teeth, “unlike you, monsieur Casanova.”

“One time too much, it seems,” Danton laughed like a lion, “that’s probably why he got together with that jackass Polon.”

“ _Adrien Polon,” said Robespierre quietly when Camille inquired after his name, probably the only one who can get an answer from him, “we are, um, together now.”_

_Camille’s cup shattered in pieces. No one spoke._

“ _Are you sure?” Camille asked, “I don’t know much about that guy. Can I meet him?”_

_Maximilien smiled, nodded slightly before turning to Saint-Just, “Antoine, have you finished viewing the report I send you? I have read yours and I find it very appealing...”_

Saint-Just shrugged, “Never really knew the guy.”

“Well, we will see them tomorrow, no?” Danton nuzzled in his girlfriend’s neck, nipping at her skin like nobody’s business, “Robespierre is never known to be loud, anyway.”

Saint-Just made a face, “You are disgusting.”

“The people like me though,” he grinned, a lion showing its fangs.

 

* * *

  
**Maxime 5:45 PM**

_Hi, Antoine, are you going to be there tomorrow night?_

Saint-Just sat straight on his bed, almost sure he had hallucinated. It’s been a year since he had heard any news from him. He felt like a schoolgirl waiting for her first date.

**Me 5:48 PM**

_Yes, I will be there. How are you, Maxime? How’s things with Adrien?_

He growled, backing from the last sentence, looking as the letters disappear one after another, like piano tiles under able fingers.

**Me 5:49 PM**

_Hi, Maxime, how are you? I will be there tomorrow for the annual meeting._

He looked at the bubble and the three dots alternating each other, blue and white and blue and white.

**Maxime 5:53PM**

_I’m well, hope so are you. Thank you for coming._

Saint-Just couldn’t help himself.

**Me 5:55 PM**

_Is Adrien coming as well?_

Saint-Just closed his phone, played with the buttons, traced his wallpaper paint with interest — he even got up and brought himself a snack — his phone still unmoved by his calm and surprisingly mature demeanor.

He opened it, only an image full of stars— the default setting now seem to him devoid of meaning. His phone was a bitch.

It was more than five hours later that his phone really had the balls to ring.

**Maxime 10:32 PM**

_Sorry, didn’t mean the late reply. Adrien can’t make it tomorrow, he is in England for a research_.

**Maxime 10:34 PM**

_Good night, Antoine._

At that he did a thing very responsible adult would do — he clutched his phone near his chest and had fallen asleep on it. Something had left him, light and weightless.

And if he woke up with a smile tomorrow morning — no one had to know.

* * *

  
Saint-Just actually have seen Polon once. It was during a meeting during his second year of university. Before he found that Desmoulins was a piece of shit, that is.

Polon was a tall man. His broad shoulders and arms could probably lift twice of Saint-Just’s weight. He was discussing with Robespierre about something that seemed vaguely important. His hands stayed on Maximilien’s waist, as if they belonged there.

Saint-Just had hated this guy since their very first encounter. Not that he wasn’t biased anyway— but something about Polon made him lose his nerves every time he was near him. Animosity would flicker under his eyes, and not the way like Danton – it was more appalling, aesthetically beautiful and terrifying.

And yet, when Saint-Just arrived at the meeting, it was Maximilien’s eyes that ground him back. Its sea-green eyes drowning in the clear, candid water. His long sleeves with printed flowers, the green linen carefully made his. Robespierre had always liked French linen. He had thinned, his shoulder blades sharper and narrower, and when he was able to compose himself and walk up to him, Camille beat him to it.

“Maxime!” Camille laughed, cheeks flushed, “Finally! Why didn’t you come sooner?”

Maximilien smiled fondly, “I told you, I have work for law school.”

“Not even Christmas?” He cried. Camille was loud when he was drunk, “C’mon, Max! Stop being an workaholic and spend some time with your friend— how’s your boyfriend handling your lifelong affair with the law?”

Maximilien’s eyes drowned back to the water, his smile felt rigid, “I am trying.”

Camille was about to say something else when Lucile took him by the arm, “Nice to see you Maxime,” she smiled, “but I am going to steal this man here for a moment.”

“Oh, you don’t need to steal him”, he teased, “Camille is already far gone.”

Camille laughed, eyes blinking stars, “C’mon Lucile, let’s dance! You know how much I love to dance with you...”

This meeting was as unprofessional and stupid as Camille’s moral standards. Not that he was complaining.

She swung her dress, put her hands on his and waved away like butterflies do. Camille trailing after her.

Danton came there to make a small greeting with Marat, and his smirk didn’t leave his face when he darted his eyes from Saint-Just and Robespierre, until he barked a laugh, “A shame that you have the same name of the king he hates the most,” Robespierre tilted his head, not understanding, but Saint-Just blushed anyway, “a shame that you don’t call him Marie...”

Robespierre’s eyes trailed to the dancing couple, rested there. Saint-Just was playing Danton’s murder in his head.

“So Antoine,” Maximilien said, “how’s everyone?”

“They are as good as the bag of trash they have always been.” He said, which was not exactly true. He had changed major, and so was Danton to political sciences, while Camille finally got his ass together to ask Lucile out. Not that Maximilien would be interested, anyway.

“How are you, then?”

“Found myself rereading the Iliad for no reason,” he said.

Maximilien stared, “I remember the last time you read Homer was for a school assignment.”

I came out to you with that book in hand, he thought, you have said you didn’t mind about the book or me being gay.

He refrained from spluttering out verses about Patroclus to him, “Yeah, have been up to my fourth read.”

“We men are wretched things,” Maximilien said. Saint-Just can see the printed words in his head, print it next to his, “everything is more beautiful because we're doomed.”

You will never be lovelier than you are now, he thought. We will never be here again.

“That’s what Necker said in our economic course,” he said. “apparently laissez-faire capitalism is the root of all evil, except when it comes to human nature.”

Maximilien fumbled with his green sleeves, wincing. Saint-Just frowned, abandoning his drink to approach him, “What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing—“

“Let me see,” he said softly, “please.”

Robespierre hesitated, hands clutching at his sleeves. Saint-Just wanted to kiss his temples, que ça ira, “Really, Antoine, it was an accident—“

“I am not denying it,” he said, and Robespierre flinched, knowing that he made a mistake, “just let me see.”

He reached his arm, and Maximilien, resigned, let him, “I tell you, Antoine, it’s just a scratch—“

He carefully removed the green cloth, remembering when Robespierre coming to university with a bandaged jaw, how he smiled and told Camille that he got mugged. Desmoulins had scolded him, and how he had kept smiling. Saint-Just hadn’t said anything back then, feeling that he wasn’t in any position to speak.

“Shit, Maximilien,” he said now, still not knowing what to say, “what the hell.”

The bruise was a mess of red, yellow and purple blotches, the imprints of nails and some other things he can’t figure out — and before Robespierre had time to stop him, he pushed the sleeve up, revealing a trail of red and yellow and — _shit_.

“What the fuck, Maxime,” he stared, “what the fuck — what the _fuck_.”

He flinched, and as if he was fucking embarrassed by this, quickly rolled his sleeve back to the wrist, “I’m sorry, it’s really nothing. Listen to me, Antoine —“

But Saint-Just’s head was spinning, and his heart tudd-tudd- _tudd_ -ed and kept beating until it stopped for a second, and suddenly he felt the need to puke. He took the half-full glass on the counter and drank it in one go, chocked a bit and was finally able to focus.

“Antoine?” He asked, “Are you okay?”

“ _What the hell,_ ” he said.

“Are you okay?”

“Explain it to me, Maximilien,” he said, trying not to sound like a dying man, “or else I’m afraid I have to tell Camille. I know you don’t want this.”

But Maximilien was looking at the clock, biting at his thumb, “I would have to go,” he said, “thank you for coming. I assume I am not much use in this meeting.”

Saint-Just sighed, “I will tell Augustin too.”

“I really have to go—“

“Also Charlotte.”

Robespierre buried his face in his hands and when he looked up, his glasses were fogged.

“Walk with me?”

“You didn’t come with your SUV?” He asked. Robespierre seemed to make a physical effort not to scream.

“Used the metro,” he said quietly, “you can say that I’m in an environment strike.”

“We’ll use my car,” Robespierre’s eyes widened, confusion on his face. “I listed one this year,” he explained, and there was shame in Robespierre’s expression when he said this, noting the gap of time, but lost moments can be amended, lest wounds came in between them. Wounds. Oh god.

He imagined Desmoulins’ face when he would know, and even then Saint-Just couldn’t bring himself to laugh at him.

 

* * *

 

“I was in a bar,” Maximilien said after he buckled his seatbelt, “I was engaging in a conversation with a woman at the counter. She was complaining to me about her girlfriend’s upcoming birthday. She had to buy something expensive. She was a lovely girl.”

“You were in a bar?” Saint-Just said, incredulous, “you declined every invitation during uni days.” We spend almost every day in the library together, he thought, your glasses would always slip a bit when you were concentrating in your book.

“Sometimes,” he said, his eyes looking straight into the night, “Anyway, we were talking, but then a man had mistaken her to his girlfriend, so–“ he gestured his arm deliberately, “yeah.”

It sounded awfully fake, but he didn’t dare to push, “Okay.”

“You won’t tell?” His eyes were stupidly hopeful.

“No,” he said against his conscience, “but you should come to Desmoulins’ house-” – _or mine_ – “you come here more often. They miss you.”

“I told you, I don’t have time,” Robespierre snapped, stopped, “I’m sorry, you are right. I shouldn’t have said it. I will try to be here more often.”

“It is because of me?” He said tiredly, not trying to stop himself anymore. He clutched the wheel until the knuckles went white. “Because if it is because of me I can—“

“ _What?_ ” Robespierre whispered, a tremor in his voice.

“I said that I could not go to the meetings—“

“No- no —why it would be because of you?” He was scratching the back of his hand back and forth.

Saint-Just let out a bitter smile, “I thought it was painfully obvious that I was in love with you since I had met you. Everyone knows, anyway.”

He parked near Robespierre’s– and Polon’s—house, listening to the soft breathing beside him, not willing to look back at him and see affront and disgust in his eyes.

“Like I said, I could try to avoid you if you desire it—“ he halted, words swallowed him when Maximilien’s shaky exhale transformed into a full body shaking. His eyes expressed so much surprise and confusion and fear that it made Saint-Just guilty to think that he actually knew — his hands found the seatbelt’s safety button and quickly opened the door but made no attempt to get out.

“I-I’m sorry, Antoine–“ he whispered, “thank you- thank you for taking me home— I just need to go — I’m sorry, thank you–“

And just as quickly as he said this chain of nonsense, he got out of the car and ran. The stars blinked, a comet flashed by, a tear would have sufficed, he reasoned.

 

* * *

 

**His Sons Would Be Des Moulins 11:54 PM**

_wtf did you say to max hes sending me 100+ messages and i have 3 unanswered calls_

**His Sons Would Be Des Moulins 1:08 AM**

_oH MY GOD YOU TOLD HIM YOU FUCKER_

**His Sons Would Be Des Moulins 1:10 AM**

_danton is laughing_

**His Sons Would Be Des Moulins 1:15 AM**

_come to my house tomorrow we need to talk about this_

**Me 1:20 AM**

_Your grammar needs fixing._

**His Sons Would Be Des Moulins 1:23 AM**

_its ur life that needs fixing_

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somehow things are already getting off hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout-out to AStupidUserName420 for being sweet and sharing my love for these losers. Thank you for your sweet comments <3

 

There was something endearing about heartbeat. The enduring beat that seemed to never stop, the cords of life tingling under the blankets of blood and veins and tudd-dum- _tudd_. It went on and on, it goes on and on. It will go on and on. He would reach out just to prove his heart can burn, he should have taken his hand just to prove it can bleed. 

Maximilien looked around, scared that the shadows would flicker and form into a back band line of actors in the silent film, dancing without clinking their eyes. He was not back. Only the phone flash resisted to the room’s obligation to shut itself down. 

It was Camille. He was still typing. 

****Camille 1:17 AM** **

_look i understand that being liked by a stupid person with (objectively) good looks is a hard sell but stay with me maxime okay?_

****Camille 1:21 AM** **

_hey maybe u would like to come tomorrow??? we can talk shit abt st-just (with him here ofc) or eat or play with birds or something please_

His breath hitched, because somehow it always was. Sometimes he would stop breathing just to show that he was still alive. The need to breathe would remind him of heart, how it pumped and the effort of it. Maximilien would finally took pity and let his heart do what brains should. 

His fingers found his wrist, his pulse underneath the skin. He listened. _Dum. Dum– —_

****Me 1:22 AM** **

_You don’t have birds in your house, Camille._

****Camille 1:23 AM** **

_EXCUSE ME YES??? you gave them to me for my birthday??? i even invited you to see them last month?? I EVEN NAMED ONE MAX_

****Me 1:24 AM** **

_Oh._

_Right, I remember._

Of course he remembered. He couldn’t come that day. No one can come to one’s house with a black eye and not have suspicions. 

_Tudd - Dum. Dum – —_

_Is your heart still beating?_

_Of course it is._

_So why you can’t breathe?_

****Me 1:25 AM** **

_Tell me your other bird’s name?_

A slam. A door. A pulse. Maximilien clutched his phone, trying to break it. The front door showed a dark silhouette, a bottle of brandy. He even knew how much of alcohol was left. None. 

It was a mistake, he knew. Speaking was always a mistake. Camille should stay out of this. 

He wrapped his arms around his knees, something about the quickening of hearts. He should have taken his hand. One, two, three, one two, three. One—

“What are you playing at?”  

It will stop, he reasoned. Nothing was as easy to heal as a skipped heartbeat. 

 

* * *

 

“Maxime said he can’t come tomorrow,” said Camille through the phone at a human hour of three o’clock in the morning, “I wonder why.” 

Saint-Just was laying on his bed, arm draped over his head, sighing, “Don’t call me in the middle of night and expect me to accept your blame, Desmoulins.” 

“Oh, I’m sure that if Max call you at this hour you are going to accept whatever he will give you,” he said. He can hear Camille’s snicker behind the flimsy clouds of his mind.

“Fuck you and your sex jokes,” he groaned, “no wonder why you’re friends with Danton.” 

“We’re not exactly friends,” he said, voice rigid. 

Antoine removed the pressure of his arm. His eyes felt dizzy and tired. He blinked, trying to make sense of this. “Why are you calling me now again? Because I want to go to your house right now and murder you.” 

“Subtle,” Camille said, “Lucile is sleeping. Don’t sign my death sentence this soon.” 

Antoine rubbed his brows, “I can sense a sex joke coming.” 

Whenever Camille didn’t hear it, or he was too busy to not sound tired himself, he ignored the remark, “I invited Charlotte tomorrow, so you better come.” 

“Charlotte Corday?” He shuddered despite himself, remembering a time where she literally threw herself at Marat “for being too stupid”, as she said it. She had almost broke his neck, for god’s sake.  “She is not really in my list of people that I would unnecessarily piss off.” 

“Oh trust me, I wouldn’t,” there was a rare trace of genuineness in his voice, “I invited Max’s sister, not a woman with a knife in her bag when she walks her dog.” 

“Didn’t she criticized you for being too radical?” 

“Funny, because I’m not a radical activist like you that flashes signs like ‘I’m not in any factions but I’ll fuck them all.’”

“ _Fight_ , Desmoulins. Also you literally own the school’s newspaper that specializes in talking shit of others.” He said, remembering honorable titles ranging from ‘Ten Reasons Why This School Is A Disguised Autocracy’ to ‘Green Should Be The National Color You Dumbasses’.  

“Whatever,” he said, “I think you’ll be down for both.” 

“Why did you invite Maximilien’s sister?” He snapped. 

“She called me after the meeting,” Camille replied, sleep slipping in between the words, “anyway, I would tell you the details once you’ll step your dirty foot on my house’s carpet. Good night.” 

Antoine raised his voice to speak again, but was interrupted by a sigh, “It’s been a weird night, so relax. Come at my house at ten, asshole.” And the line went dead. 

The phone was still buzzing. The repetitive sound of tu-tu-tu made his eyes twitch, his heart slowing down to the rhythm of the soft sounds of the dials. He felt going numb. His hands unconsciously wrapped around the phone, ironically under very different circumstances than yesterday. 

The blankets felt much more heavy than yesterday night. Still, he drifted to sleep, thinking about how Maximilien was feeling tonight. Antoine hoped he wasn’t too angry at him, for anything genuine in him was made of anger. 

 

* * *

 

He can still recall Maximilien’s first speech in front of him during a meeting. 

He remembered because even he can admit that it was a mediocre, plain one. His words were jumbled together, without any rhythm or coherence, one could see the passion of the orator, but not of the words themselves. He could remember Maximilien’s gestured arms, his exclaims and shouts, but not the topic of the speech. 

Antoine recalled being slightly disappointed at this. He had put this man in a pedestal that even he couldn’t attain. After the light applause, Robespierre had disappeared from the room and whispers started around the room. Danton shrugged from his place, talking to Marat. Saint-Just had had the unfortunate part of hearing them.  

“He’s still sick?” Marat said, nonchalantly. 

“He’s always sick, Jean.” 

“How does he even survive being a law major and joining three political clubs at the same time with this kind of body?” 

“He doesn’t”, said Danton, smiling, “that’s the point.” 

“Robespierre’s gonna die sooner than all of us with this self-destructive game he’s playing,” Jean-Paul said, crossing his legs. 

“Oh no,” Danton laughed, “he has his way. He would rather kill than die, you know that.” 

“I know,” Marat answered, rolling his eyes. “I know.” 

Later, when Maximilien returned to the room a shade paler, Antoine went up to him. He looked up, green eyes fixing intently.

“It’s your turn, right?” He asked, “First time?” 

Saint-Just nodded, his nails biting in his palms. Maximilien smiled a little, his hands pressed lightly on his shoulder, the touch of a feather. 

“Judging by your letter, I’m sure you’ll give a wonderful start,” he said, that rare smile still gracing his lips, “I’m sorry that I didn’t meet your expectations today, but you’ll do better.” 

“You’re sick,” he said. 

“Just be faithful to your ideals, Saint-Just,” he said, ignoring the previous comment, “but I think you already know that.” 

I’m faithful to you, he thought, “If I’m calling you Maximilien, you have to call me by my name,” he said, the papers in his hands a blur of words he can’t understand yet. 

That seemed to start him, because he removed his hand from Antoine’s shoulder. A chuckle escaped his lips. Maximilien was looking at the ground. People were asking Saint-Just to speak.  

“Good luck, Antoine,” a voice behind him said when he walked away. To this day, he was sure he misheard it. 

Before he spoke, he could see Desmoulins cupping his hands, making soundless Boos. Maximilien was beside him, making disapproving frowns. His voice brought him back, and even Camille was listening after that.  

Robespierre was standing at end of his speech, admiration and respect on his face. And that made Saint-Just feel that he might be a little in love.  

More than a little, turns out. 

 

* * *

 

“Camille has been waiting for you,” Lucile said, smiling, knowing full well that he had not been waiting for him. 

“I’m sure he is,” he said. 

“I know how much Camille likes and adores you, monsieur Saint-Just,” she replied. Her teasing smile made Antoine feel that Camille did not deserve this strange charming woman, if he deserved anything to begin with. 

He thanked her politely, and walked in, muttering ‘hell is real’ until he came face to face with the bastard who shit-talked to him at three in the morning. 

“Oh my god,” Saint-Just said, “don’t you _dare_ , Desmoulins.” 

“What?” Camille said, not looking up from his book. 

“Dickens’ _Tale_? Seriously?” 

“I’m reading it to make a book criticism for the newspaper,” he growled, “I’ll make sure to destroy it piece by piece after I finish reading it.” 

“Glad we have something in common,” his eyes trailing at the deckled edges and the the abused pages, some highlighted passages that have lost its words, “I can see that you are passionate about it.” 

Camille closed the book with a _bam_ , “I’m determined to prove how much historical inaccuracy you can put in four hundred pages.” 

“ _Braveheart_  level, I might add,” Lucile said. 

“Of course, my lady liberty,” Camille replied softly, kissing her cheeks. It occurred to Antoine that Camille would be the kind of person that would propose to the love of his life with a recitation of the Declaration of Rights of Men. He felt his lips curled upwards despite his best efforts. 

(He’ll give him this, they do look cute together.) 

The doorbell rang downstairs, Lucile went to answer it. 

The birds beside Camille were chirping. He said that one of them was named Max. 

“What’s for the other one?” 

“The love of his life.” 

“Adrien?” 

Camille laughed, “Rousseau.” 

 

* * *

 

Charlotte Robespierre was full of colors. Her clothes were always well picked, always full of vibrant, bright motifs. Her brown curls would be made into a ponytail, her eyes stern and sober. A marble in the room. Lucile quickly went upstairs, not wanting to disturb. 

“Augustin can’t come today,” she sat down after the greetings, the sun showering golden on her face. In a moment of blind admiration, Saint-Just could have mistaken her for a younger Maximilien. “He’s having a meeting with some young aspiring officer in the city,” she said, “a certain Bonaparte, he told me.” She shook her head. “But that’s not the point.”  

Camille was biting his lips. He started, stuttering a bit, “You told me about Maxime.” 

Antoine glared at the celling, not knowing where to put his hands. They were the details he had not told him yet. Charlotte just nodded. 

“He’s being odd all year round,” she knitted her brows, her hands interlaced together, “the last time he talked to me was three months ago. I believe that you have seen him yesterday for the annual meeting.”

She was looking at him, so Antoine nodded, “He texted me before that, asking me if I would be there.” 

Camille’s eyes widened, but did not speak. Charlotte continued. 

“He wouldn’t tell me what’s wrong,” she said, as if something was wrong, “he has always told me before.” 

Her eyelashes fluttered, rested on her cheeks, and almost like a confession, she said quietly, “I have access to his bank account, he always told me that I can take money from it whenever I want — last week I checked, there was nothing left. Not a single penny.”  

He thought how Maximilien had walked to the meeting instead of a car ride. How he had believed him. That was the thing about people who believe everything they say, he thought, they also believe their own lies. 

To Antoine’s undying horror, she prompted it even further, “I was denied access to it soon after. Maximilien would never do this to me. Something must be wrong.” 

The birds upstairs were chirping louder than ever. There was in the air a soundless chaos. “I want you and Camille to help me. To help _him_.” 

Her eyes were bright and clear. There was no begging in her voice. She knew that her brother was loved and respected. They all hoped so, “I believe that you’re in love with my brother, monsieur Saint-Just.” 

He felt naked, “I — yes.” 

“Does he know?” 

“Yes.” 

“I have no wish to manipulate you, sir, know that this is not my intention,” she said steadily, “but if you desire to help, I hope you would keep any feelings aside, for he is not — as far as I know — single. It’s a sister’s wish to protect her sibling, I hope you would understand.” 

“Of course,” his fingers twitched, feeling to need to bury himself in books, or to burn them, “I do.”

“Camille,” she said, turning to him, “are you alright?” 

Camille nodded once, and as if it was not enough, nodded one more time. 

She sighed, stood up. The tea in front of her not touched, “Do not worry too much, perhaps it is nothing.” The birds were silent. The chaotic sound slipped in the air. 

“Oh, one more thing, monsieur Saint-Just,” she said, before looking at her watch once more, “you’re truly as pretty as my brother said you were.”  

And just as fast as she came, she was gone. The birds’ cries were suddenly back, as if they had never stopped. Camille sighed beside him. 

 

* * *

 

****Maxime 9:31 PM** **

_yo tihs person whats u_

****Me 9:31 AM****  

_Maximilien?_

****Maxime 9:32 AM** **

_heah jsut to tell you taht if you talk to him again i woll kill you and smash ur h ed in the ground_

****Me 9:33 AM** **

_Who are you? Where’s Maximilien?_

****Maxime 9:35 AM****  

_Iwjll kiss you if u ever talk to his ain do u understand_

****Maxime 9:35 AM** **  

 _*kill_  

****Me 9:36 AM** **

_That is honestly the lamest death threat I have ever received._

****Me 9:38 AM** **

_Maxime?_

_Lame executioner?_

_Hello?_

****Me 9:54 AM** **

_Damnit, answer me or I’ll call the police._

 

****His Sons Would Be Des Moulins 3:20 AM** **

_is this revenge if it is i probably don’t deserve it_

_at least pick another hour than three in the fuckin morning stjust_

****Me 3:20 AM****  

_Call me back. It’s urgent._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only comments can make me hate this thing less rlly


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Camille. No. Stop that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im gonna edit this in the morning it’s 2 am

 

It was an oddly normal day. Antoine couldn’t think of another more perfectly normal day than this. Days like this made him want to take his flute and listen to the smooth sounds of its cords for minutes to no end. He can even hum a bit, sing a bit, for it was a truly, a normal, sun streaming down you eyes-day.

“ _Il pleut, il pleut, bergère,_ ” he can hear a child— children? — sung what he had to say, “ _rentre tes moutons blancs... Il pleut, il pleut, bergère..._ ” and so and on. The chariots’ wheels stumbled on the streets of Paris.

It isn’t rain, he said to no one, he doubted anyone would hear it, the sun is just high on your face. It makes you want to cry.

To think it was I who did this, he thought, looking at the rocks and dirt that composed the streets, the jeers and cheers of the people of Paris, the accusations in their eyes. He did not closed his eyes, but images still blurred under the constant movement of the chariot, so he looked ahead, thinking about immortality. About ninety-three, _l’article deux._

Couthon was closing his eyes, and one of them was trying to speak. The audience was having a good show. Camille Desmoulins was shouting the other day, or it could be today, really, for his spirit never seem to fade in this Place de la Révolution, Citizens, do you not remember me? It was I who lead to you liberty! I was the one who called you to arms, I _was_ — and so and on, sometimes interrupted by his sobs.

His wrists were bound, and he made a difficult move to get closer to him. Maximilien did not stirred a bit, nor did he speak. One would have thought that he had already perished. His face, with purple bruises just showing at the edges of the white cloth around his jaw, was bandaged. Antoine wanted to kiss it, just to show how much it hurt.

His stockings and waistcoats were damaged, a trail of red shading him, bright as he was.

His eyes were slightly open, a small glim of consciousness resided in that green light. He noticed him. He blinked, not without nervousness, and his jaw moved slightly, but no sound came out of it.

 _La loi est l’expression libre et solennelle de la volonté générale_ , he thought when they cut his hair, dark locks swallowed the floor whole, _je meurs donc libre_. Then, finally, he closed his eyes for a while, mocking himself for the normalcy of the day.

There was no thunder, no rains, no cries of guilt other than a wild crowd, it made him remember of his home, where there was so much thunder and rains and cries that he ran away from it. He opened his eyes, seeing Maximilien staring back at him.

They exchanged glances so many times before, and this one was no different. He should try romanticism, he thought to himself, for last glances should always be special and meaningful. Something should be found under the dusty lips and the fluttering lashes, something should be taken from that moment of vanity, of pride, of this last glance into the soul of the slings and arrows of consciousness, into the body, into whatever that was left of them.

They were not the children of the Revolution, but the ashes of it.

Yet nothing happened, the same thrill of happiness, of gratitude washed Antoine when he laid his eyes on him, and a vanished then ignited hope settled him down, down until it reached farther and beyond. And there was nothing but the drunk hope in front of him, hoping that he will end up in the same place as him after death. Drums struck his ears, replacing any confessions by the monotone sounds of orderly execution.

He liked the idea of dying like a martyr, always longed for it, dreamt it in his dreams, read every antique hero and their deeds and dooms, but _oh,_ he heard someone screamed beside him, laughing, _the price of it—_! Brutus and Cassius were never meant to rule, but to speak, to rule out the speaker of the room. How pitiful be that their heads end up in the battlefield instead!

Augustin went up to the scaffold. Hope fluttered in his chest like a incessant bird, the feather that tickled his heart, the cords of the flute were playing a loving song. The incessant beat of wishes and words flowed him gently, where will Maxime be when my head is in the basket?

He was trying to look at Maximilien when they placed his head on the wooden plate, il pleut, he said again. The blood of the former dead, perhaps. The blade was a head from his.

To think it was I who did this, he thought again and again, the declaration of ninety-three played in his mind, when he discussed it with Maximilien, the notes and scribbles beside the small margins, when hope like this again took his chest like fire, where _il ne pleuvait pas_ , when the dead reigned on the throne of France.

This is not a conclusion, he knew, for it was too much of a plain, normal ending of a story. Nothing will fade other than the sliver-like blade that was swinging against the wind, its cords and chains freeing people out of them, of something libertine and deliberate, and Antoine can visualize his falling head, fitting the basket, Maximilien’s held high in the crowd, a spike running through the neck or a flower crown on his damaged skull. Someone will be singing about the rain.

 

* * *

   
To think it was I who did this, he thought, looking at the phone screen. Desmoulins would come soon. He called Camille Desmoulins of all people to his fucking house. He could have called Le Bas instead, but Maximilien probably need Camille more than him right now.

“God,” he said to himself, sitting on his chair, hands doing messes to his hair. He got up, trailed right and left, and finally settling back to his chair. “ _God_.”

If this situation was a melodrama of five acts, he would have rolled his eyes and slept through it all.

He eyed his phone, grabbing it with force, about to call the police. He stopped, remembering the last time he ran from the house to elope with his childhood friend. A reckless thing, his fingers gripped the green phone case like a lifeline, we are all reckless things.

What if all of this was just a scam? What if someone stole his phone and all of this is just a drunken rifle? What if Maximilien’s phone just became one of those raging artificial intelligence and had conscience on its own? What if he’s actually living in a dream and things aren’t real and objective and not really made of matters and the real world had actually fall apart and no one is safe and his house is actually on fire and he is dying of stroke —

He threw the phone on his bed grudgingly, and proceeded to walk back and forth again. His head hurt and he was ready to burn this house down (if it wasn’t already). His breathing was ragged, and his vision swayed. The last time he was this unstable was when he learnt that his mother had opposed his courtship to Thérèse, when he took some money and went away, when his mother’s eyes had filled with tears and slapped him right on the left cheek of his face. He closed his eyes, controlled his heartbeats, and tried very very hard not to hate himself.

He touched his earrings, a round little thing with a tinge of gold and copper. His fingers fidgeted, moving shakily along the smooth line of the ring.

Someone knocked on the door. Antoine nearly flew to it, his hands sweaty enough to fail to grip at the knob.

“Okay Saint-Just,” Camille said, panting and losing all his stutters, “I don’t give a fuck that you are having a nervous breakdown, you have exactly ten seconds to get your ass together and explain to me what happened.“

And in a moment of boldness or because that disgust wasn’t welcome in time of distress, he grabbed Antoine’s hand and dragged him down the stairs, making him nearly trip. His hands twitched, not liking the touch.

“I already told you on the phone.”

“You told me shit that’s something like ‘oh yeah hi fuck yes I know it’s three-in-the-fucking-morning and I’m just calling you to say that Max is dying so yeah come over for tea so we can calmly and gingerly discuss which part of Max’s body the murderer will be cutting and throw in the river afterward’ and then you just hanged up without another word, fuck,” Camille was talking fast and without restraints, a torrent in a hurricane, “you didn’t even have the decency to reply to any of my texts, asshole.”

Camille was running with him hand in hand on an empty street, and he would have find it funny if it weren’t for the present situation. Screw situational irony and its constituents.

His tongue tied, frustrated at himself for being speechless. Camille didn’t marvel at the victory, and growled instead. He let go of his hand, passing his over and over on his shirt, as if it was contaminated by some sort of germ. He fumbled for his car keys. Only the ringing sound of the key chains can be heard in the night, it was a white square, writing the captions _I’m not a boy or a girl, I am an existential nightmare_ , with a picture of Lucile beside them.

“Okay, now,” they went into the olive car, an old model of Ford two-thousand. He remembered Camille saying that he planned to get a new one when he’ll propose to his girlfriend or what, “tell me where he lives and then you give me a proper explanation.”

“You don’t know where he lives?” The engine roared. Camille’s dark circles apparent in the artificial light in a night like this.

Camille shook his head slowly, almost guiltily, “No. I only know where the Duplay’s residence is.”

“It’s fine,” Antoine heard himself say, “I only know because I drove him back from the meeting.”

“Just give me the address,” he said, not taking the pity. So he told him, hell, Antoine would probably hand him his social security number if it meant he could see Maximilien right now.

He reached his earrings again, the cold touch made lean on them. He put his cheek on the car window, his reflection was the colors of the shadows in the sunrise.

“I, I don’t know,” he hated how he hesitated, how his voice sounded weak and small, “look, someone probably took his phone and texted me while high. I’m not sure. It was a string of messages — some sort of death threats, I guess. Something- something about if I ever touch Maximilien I would suffer some sort of capital punishment, kiss or kill me, Brontë-novel sort of things.”

“This is fucked up,” Camille said, looking straight to the road.

The rapidly changing streets met his eyes, and he tried very hard not to blink, to breathe, to do anything. The roaring of the engine continued.

“Then I call him, of course I did— but he didn’t replied.” I called him more than twenty times, I hope he doesn’t hate me. “I don’t know, I’m not sure. I don’t know.”

There was a pause. Then, “We should not tell Charlotte yet. Have you tried to call Max’s boyfriend?”

“I don’t know, I don’t have his number.”

“God, weren’t you partner with him on a school project?”

“We did,” he said, “assignment about Faustus.” There was incessant shouts and debates on the inexistent Oedipal complex in the play, and occasionally some Freudian psychology thrown into them like pebbles of fire into hell itself. To say it was a terrible project was a understatement.

“This is some John Green shit you are doing here,” he said, wheel turning and almost whirling, “I can hear your poetic soliloquies from here. Stop talking about poetry or plays or what. You are distracting me from going into my thought spirals and glance at my own oblivion. In fact, just shut up.” Camille snapped, but the voice somehow lost its bite, “We are almost here.”

He nodded, leaning left, looking over at the dark clouds hidden by the trees. It was raining those soft and small droplets of water on the front that needn’t cleaning right away. His heart tightened under the sight of the house.

They walked to the front door in silence. The rain makes everything less metaphorically resonant, he thought, everything is much more real when it is normal.

“Maxime?” Camille asked, knocked once, his stutters returning, “Maxime? Open the door.”

Antoine looked at the sky, a raindrop went into his eye. He rubbed it with his hands.

“Max? It’s Camille,” he said and knocked again, sharper this time, on edge, “I’m sorry to be here at this time of the night– the morning — but we need to make sure you are alright–“

Some steps were heard, and all things all stopped, trying to discern the signs of life behind this wooden barrier. Slow and agonizing steps.

“Camille?”

“—yes, yes,” he nodded, knowing he wouldn’t see anyway, “yes— Maxime, are you alright? Could you please let us in? Are you safe? We want to—“

“Who’s there, Camille?”

“It’s me, Maximilien,” Antoine blinked again and again, the irritation in his eye was unbearable.

“Antoine.”

“I could go if you want, of course,” he said a little too quickly, “just let one of us in to check out on you, is this okay?”

”There’s no need,” His voice was muffled by the wall, but also by something else. Perhaps the rain, “go home, friends.”

“Maximilien, we only need to see— “ Antoine started, “what are you doing?”

“Calling Georges,” he said, dialing the numbers. The door’s knob made a sound, Camille gave him a glance, “he’s going to break this door or _you_ are going to open it, Maxime.”

A soft sigh, he sounded almost amused. His voice broke at the last syllable, “You’re as reckless as ever, Camille.”

He held his head a little higher, like a cat who got its cream, “Do as you will Maxime. Though you can chase Saint-Just out your vision if you want, no one’ll mind.”

“Stop calling Danton, Camille. You know what he is probably doing now. You know how he doesn’t like to be disturbed.”

Camille laughed a little breathlessly, and did not grant this a reply.

“Camille—“

“Just open the door, Maximilien. You are being obnoxious. We are just worried.” In the years Antoine had known the pair, Camille had never addressed Maximilien like this, this worried voice mixed with hidden and childish rage and disappointment. Somehow it made him look so young and vulnerable, as if _he_ was the child, the youngest of the family. Antoine himself felt oddly responsible, like the one who witnessed an open fight but did nothing.

The lock turned slightly after a few minutes. The rain was starting to get colder and sharper, the drops hitting his back like a mad game of copper coins. They didn’t speak.

Antoine tried to open the door. It showed no resistance.

He pushed the door quickly, and there was no the usual light that went through a house to the night. Maximilien backed a few small steps, and even in the dim room, he could discern the fear in his hands tightly embracing his arms, his widened eyes and the red and purple bruises beneath them. Antoine felt like screaming. The irritation in his eyes. The rain pouring down whatever that came up from the sky. Camille’s gasp. Maximilien’s hands on his face, as if he still have something to hide.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, oh god, don’t look at me now, please, please, just, please, I’m sorry, I’m sorry— I’m sorry—“ and so on, so on, on and on were the same words that were uttered, vomited to an unwilling audience, until someone found the light. Maximilien flinched so badly that he stopped abruptly, swallowing things that should not be his to own.

The shirt couldn’t hid his thinness, the ribs showing through the white cotton. The other scars and bruises seemed apparent without shadows or those sophisticated blue and red and green long sleeves, the slight shakings and the bitten nails. His hairs seemed to be ruffled and used, and Antoine really, really need to lie down for a moment.

Maximilien was still backing away, everything about him seemed to break when Camille ran to him, inches from his face. Antoine can’t do that now, he needed to shatter a glass bowl, something that wasn’t himself.

The small murmurs of apologies were coming back like a second row of a terrible earthquake. Camille touched him softly on the arm, “Hey, Maxime, hey, it’s okay, shh, we got you. Hey, do you hear me, Maxime? Count with me, yes, like this– one, two three – you got it, shh, I got you. You are safe now.” It went on like that for the following minutes. Antoine had never felt this useless before.

When shakings gradually became small quivers, Camille got up, his face wet and weary. “I need a moment,” he said, “talk to him, Saint-Just. He... doesn’t hate you that much.”

I know, he thought, looking at the red and scraps on Maximilien’s face, and it was so strikingly familiar that he felt this time he could reach out and actually kiss it and would have taste the still fresh wounds, and the old ones as well.

Camille handed him the first aid box, god who knows where he found it, not that he cared, really. “Don’t ask him anything, just... talk to him. We’ll get him to the hospital, he needs care. Now, excuse me,” he said, looking away from all of this, and headed for the bathroom to cry to call or whatever one did when you wish to lose your memory watered from your brain.

Maximilien was now sitting beside his desk, a small, delicate furniture, probably his. All Antoine could manage was a placing a chair next to him and successfully sat on it without falling.

He didn’t dared to make contact with him at first, but Maximilien’s eyes were half lidded and half conscious. His shoulders dropped considerably since they first entered, his hands relaxed on the hard wooden desk, as if they belonged there.

“Maximilien,” he said softly, “can I help for your wounds?”

“It’s fine.”

“I will just put some disinfectant, okay? I’m no doctor, I know, but just let me help you for this.”

Maximilien nodded a little, looking over at him. His eyes were sober, somehow unfazed by this. Something inside him broke, piece by piece, a piece memory he should not have possessed, a time where he should not have existed. He loved him still, and for that he was glad. There was nothing more miserable than the rain of the morning being broken by the sun rising to the clouds.

If he was born another day, another month, another century, he would still find these pair of eyes, and drown in them again and again. Yet there was nothing romantic in this odd dedication, for when they cleaned the ashes, they became the children, and there would only be gratitude and happiness left in these eyes, the unwavering passion of something he didn’t understand and didn’t wish to, the green of the masses, the sea of it.

_I hate the dusts that forms me and speak to you more than the red on your cheeks, Maximilien._

He winced when he applied it to his left cheek, a gruesome thing that made him wonder if his teeth were all intact.

“Does it hurt? I’ll be careful.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“I loved him, you know,” he said.

He didn’t know if he was talking about Adrien or Camille or his father or what.

“I know.”

At that, Maximilien closed his eyes, asleep in this air of blood and first aid kit tools, “I’m lying, he’s going to be back and you need to go. Camille too.”

“Did Adrien... did this to you?” He asked hesitantly, not sure if he was allowed to ask this. No answer came from it.

“You are going to the hospital, Maximilien. Not before that. This is probably the only thing I’ll agree with Saint-Just,” Camille said, his face washed and black curls pushed back into a small ponytail.

Maximilien’s lips turned into a thin line, almost white. Antoine didn’t hear the usual barks that came along his master’s distress.

“Where’s your dog?” He asked.

Now some red was on his lips, for he bit them until they were soaked in blood, as if he didn’t have enough of it on his face and arms. “He killed it on our first anniversary.”

Camille tucked his arm gently, “C’mon Max, let’s get you to the hospital, don’t think about this for now, okay? All you need to do is to sleep through—“

“Camille,” Maximilien said, “Camille, how much you would be better off if you would be with Danton instead of me. Oh but use your brain, child. Don’t you understand that I’ll end up like him? He had crushed him with a crowbar— he was protecting me — and I’ll end up the same — I can handle this myself, and you will make a mess out of this, Camille. How can I go to the hospital without being seen and without a nickel in my pocket? Think about it, Camille, _Camille_ —.”

“Stop saying my name like you own it!” He said, “Maxime, tell me, what did he do to you tonight?”

“I don’t understand,” he cried, his whole body shaking with ardor and confusion and hurt, “why would you know about this? I haven’t told anyone—“

He stopped, looking at Antoine, and something terrible clicked in his conclusion. He sighed. “Did he send you anything, Antoine?”

“Y-yes? I received death threats—“

“Drunk?”

Antoine nodded. But Maximilien was looking at the celling, a blank look on his damaged face. He would face death like this, he thought, he would face his friend’s death the same.

“Go home, friends,” he said at last, “for my sake, do not tell this to anyone.”

Antoine wanted to speak, but Camille interrupted him. And the next thing he knew was that they were now outside of the house, in Camille’s car, him staring in front of the road again. Antoine’s earrings stayed gold and round and made in copper.

“Why did you just go? We could have convinced him—“

“You know how stubborn he is,” Camille answered in a dry tone, cutting, “we’ll have to call Charlotte and his brother.”

“He asked you not to tell them.”

“Yeah,” he said, shrugging, his voice pinched, “I guess you could call this a betrayal.”

 

* * *

   
**Philippe Socks 8:23 AM**

_Hey are you okay?_

**Me 8:24 AM**

_Yes? What’s wrong?_

**Philippe Socks 8:24 AM**

_ https://vieuxcordelier/currentevent/271819.com _

**Philippe Socks 8:26 AM**

_Idk but Camille Desmoulins had written about Robespierre in his newspaper???_

_This is a little troubling._

_It actually got a lot of views and people who are trying to know more about Robespierre contacted me and sent me this link. I’m surprised they didn’t contacted you as well._

**Philippe Socks 8:28 AM**

_Hello? Antoine?_

**Me 8:30 AM**

_DJSKDMKD_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> plz give me comments in order to continue this more and more stupid fic
> 
> Also did i really need to make 1k description for the 10 thermidor event to draw some shaddy metaphors? Yes.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max’s been thinking about nothing bad but nothing good neither.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did i told you i hate this 
> 
> Tw for non-con/abuse, it is not explicit, but you could skip the last part if you need to.

“Brother, why it is always head?” Charlotte asked, her big eyes blinking. A coin on the palm of her hand.

Maximilien was hardly taller at the time, but she was sitting on the floor, so he crouched down, examining the copper coin carefully. Heads.

Bonbon cried behind, “Lemme look, lemme look too!” He ran, his short legs barely registering the movement of his feet, “What,” he pouted, “it’s just money! Are we out of books again?”

“You don’t understand, Auguste!” Charlotte said solemnly, “It’s magic! No matter how many time I flip the penny, it’s always head!”

The children sat with crossed legs, heads near each other’s, eyes unblinking. Charlotte flicked the coin several times, sometimes landing on Maximilien’s hand, on Augustin’s thighs. Heads.

Eventually, she stopped. Her hand carefully flat, as if the magic would fade away if she tried to contain it. Charlotte had always been a gentle person, she would shatter things before they get too important. Still head.

His siblings turned to him, as they always do. Their eyes were bright with wonder, but Maximilien thought it was just because of the sun.

Why, they were asking. Children were hardly asking anything else.

_I don’t know, Charlotte. Maybe you should ask me more about the current state of the french government?_

_I don’t know, Charlotte. I have homework to do._

_Charlotte._

“It is blessed,” he said, “or possibly cursed. You know, these things that bring you liberty or death. You should probably keep it.”

“Oh, no Max!” She shrieked, “If this is magical, you are having it!” She said, stuffing it in his pocket. Augustin was giggling to himself, saying, “Bouh, you are scared!”

“I’m not!” She said, indignant, “but Max’s the oldest, so he already protects us from, ah,” she hesitated, “you know! The dangers!” She had her arms wide open, “So he has to do allll the things and Max’ll need the magic coin to do it! Right, Max?”

Then, as if to prove her point, she lifted her short arms and embraced him. He couldn’t see her face, but her voice trembled, just slightly, “Brother?”

“Right,” he said, returning the embrace. Augustin didn’t make a sound, but his hand touched Max’s, a reminder. The coin was in his palm, quietly waiting for heads. It was always head. “Yes, yes, don’t worry— I’ll take care of you and Augustin, Charlotte. Don’t you worry, aunt Clara is going to be here too, don’t you worry, Charlotte.”  
“The coin,” she said through his soaked shirt, “very important.”

“I know.”

“Don’t you lose it.”

“I won’t.”

She snuggled in their embrace, her face on his chest, her head turning slowly, soft hair tickling his chin, there was a pause before she said, quietly, “Do you think father will come back?”

“The coin,” he said.

“What?”

It was always stupid to make promise to children, but then again, children were stupid, “If every time I flip it it turns out to be head, I promise you there’ll be a chance that he will be back, okay?”

She snorted, “I’m not a child.”

“You are,” he said, “so am I.”

“Okay,” she said after awhile, lacing her pinky with his, eyes bright with tears, and not, for the first time, mixed with the sun. “Okay, Max.”

 

* * *

 

He toyed it in his hand, again and again during his sleepless nights. He left it fall on his palm., its weight grounding him back. Gravity. Newton. Laws of the universe.

He didn’t know.

 

* * *

 

It actually started before the letter, if _started_ meant _met_ , at least.

Maximilien sometimes visited the coffee shop near the Duplay’s house to study, mostly because Camille worked there as a part-time job and needed company. Camille makes excellent coffee, if he didn’t accidentally pour the hot liquid on their shirt.

Camille would always be wearing that green skirt to work, and Maximilien thought that he only wanted him here because he secretly wants him to compliment on his dressing code. So he did not, just to make things easier.

As usual, he seated on the window side of the table, begin to pull out his _Civil Disobedience_ for his essay on Thoreau, and had all but anticipated a peaceful, calm, and not at all prepared for an-extremely-attrative-person-stroming-into-the-shop situation.

In his defense, Thoreau wasn’t very interesting to read anyway.

He looked up (first mistake) and eyed the tall man on the counter (second mistake). Light brown hair, tall, black sweater: _The Ocean Made Me Salty._ Gorgeous.

And here, here it is, the third mistake: he held _La Nouvelle Heloïse_ in his hand. A worn copy. Probably an old edition (by the look of it, the ninety-three’s). A deluxe edition. With gold edges and all that fancy linings. _What_.

_What?_

“What do you fucking want, Saint-Just?” Camille gritted out, “I said you were banned from this shop.”

The boy shrugged, “You not the owner of it, and therefore had no right denying access to me,” he said coldly, “well, by an objective point of view. Besides, I abhor you with a great passion. Why waste a chance to annoy you further?”

Camille was making scratches on his skirt, “What coffee? Black plain coffee like your soul?”

“Dark, bitter, and too hot for you,” he said. A sweet white cappuccino was later put on the trail table with a bam, spilling half of the coffee out. The boy made a face of disgust.

Maximilien was making spirals on his notebook with his hot pink highlighter. Thoreau. Government is best which governs least. Authority of the action. Spirals.

“Philippe,” the boy continued, sitting two tables from him, “how are you?”

“Antoine,” the other man nodded with a smile, “how’s with the barista boy there?”

“It’s like talking to a man named Camille Desmoulins.”

“That’s him, if I’m not mistaken?”

“Exactly,” he said, sipping his coffee and grimaced, “this is so sweet I think I might just throw it on his face and get some kind of some triple cheesecake powder or something.”

Philippe chuckled, “He seems to be a great guy, no wonder your crush’s best friend with him.”

“I don’t have a crush.” The boy snapped after a small pause. Maximilien stared at letters and some possible sentences. The function of the American people.

“Oh, but you do,” Philippe said, gesturing the book in his hand, “man, I think you are basically worshipping him. I mean– _L’éducation_? Seriously? Weren’t you a fan of Locke?“

“He likes it,” he said, voice dangerously close of being shy.

Maximilien didn’t like spirals. You know, those who get in the way of others. You know. The government’s foundation in a democracy.

“Oh my dear friend,” Philippe laughed, clapping his shoulders, “you sound like some stalking creep, but you are seriously adorable like this, Antoine.”

“Drop it Phil,” he said, “I’m only adorable in my grave.”

Maximilien didn’t dare to make too much sound, he never knew how to eavesdrop properly. He reached for his coffee, shakily drank it in one go. Camille was busy calling Lucile on his break time, probably.

The boy— Antoine? – asked, almost desperately, “So, how’s things with Elizabeth?”

“Oh!” Philippe’s eyes light up, his whole composure losing up. He could hear the boy’s sigh beside him, “Elizabeth is as lovely as always, you know, she is the light of my life, the Portia to my Brutus — and you know what? We are waiting for our first child– _our first child_ \- Antoine! Can you imagine?”

Antoine’s lips curled upwards, a fond exasperation on his face, “No, miss Suada, tell me more.”

 

* * *

 

 

**Charlotte 4:45 AM**

[ _pic.jpg]_

_Or this one_

_[pic.jpg]_

**Me 4:46 AM**

_My dear Charlotte, my lovely sister, my heart of hearts._

_Please stop sending me pictures of random people. I told you I don’t want date requests from strangers._

**Charlotte 4:46 AM**

_[pic.jpg]_

_[pic.jpg]_

_[pic.jpg]_

_[16 other attachments]_

**Me 4:47 AM**

CHARLOTTE.

**Charlotte 4:48 AM**

_Find me one better looking than the last one. I dare you, my dear brother._

_Seriously you need to get laid or I’ll need to be the one defending after your death that yes, YES, my brother LOOKED like a virgin, but nooo he’s actually a cleaver boy who had his fair share of love and affection. Anyway please buy my memoirs on my two horny horny brothers who are basically Don Juan but you know, hornier._

**Charlotte 9:45 AM**

_Still waiting for The Pic._

 

* * *

 

“Is it still head?” Augustin asked that day or the other day, it didn’t exactly mattered. It had become a running joke in the family, “I mean, it’s been, what? Ten years?”

“More,” he said, “much more than that.”

“It is still head?”

“Always,” he promised, and he took out the rotten coin and flickered it again, “it is the only constant that I have, Auguste.”

His brother looked at him for a long time and finally said, in a decisive tone, “You seriously need to get laid, Maximilien. What you just said is kinda pathetic.”

“Please,” he said, clutching the coin in his hand, tasting the smell of iron and decay, “you meant _really_ , Bonbon.”

“Really pathetic,” he corrected, “just do other things than sitting in your basement and writing fanfictions about Godwin’s philosophy. You need company.”

“I have Brount, Augustin.”

“You have your head,” he snatched the coin from his palm, still warm. He pinched it between his two fingers, a tête crowned with oliver leaves, “just don’t lose it.”

 

* * *

 

I wrote you a letter, he had said. Because of course he did.

Of course Antoine de Saint-Just would write him a letter. Of course. In actual, tactile paper, in those fancy papers who had these odd, aristocratic air inside each of them. Letter that began like this: _I admire you._ Letters that flowed beautifully, the o’s and d’s curled in a way he can’t imagine hands could do. Of course.

A proud, charming young man who apparently bestowed undeserving admiration to him and his actions. A young man with soft hazel eyes and sharp mouth.

A young man in love with someone else. Deeply, irrationally in love with someone who had enraptured all his attention, his words, his passion. (Fourth, the fourth mistake is to notice it.)

Of course.

With a little bit of chance, he might have find another constant in his life. Too bad that constant wasn’t some eloquent orator, capable of drowning the audience in awe and tears. Constant wasn’t alone in its keeping, perhaps. Letters were always burned some day or another, sometimes easier to just burn it the day after.

 

* * *

 

 

 Antoine had come, one day, with the Iliad in hand. He had left it with the pages of Achilles’ rage on his lover’s death. About how young he was, how broken he was. Patroclus’ body who had gone limp and lifeless. And Maximilien reached for the hand on the glimmering, glassy paper, the one with black nails and porcelain skin. And he thought, me too, Antoine, me too. His hand was soft and pliant under his.

“Can I take a picture?” He asked. Antoine looked relived.

 

* * *

 

**Me 3:56 PM**

_[pic.jpg]_

**Charlotte 3:56 PM**

_WOW. OKAY. YOU WON, YOU FLITHY MONSTER._

_Please tell me who the hell he is because he should be in those straight girls’ magazine winning 100k a month based on the look of his cheekbones._

_also you should totally bang him brother_

**Me 3:58 PM**

_What._

**Charlotte 3:58 PM**

_For our lineage._

**Me 3:59 PM**

_We can’t reproduce anything even remotely resembling a human child, Charlotte._

**Charlotte 4:01 PM**

_Admit it, he’s pretty._

**Me 4:02 PM**

_He’s an incredible spokesman in his class and writes incredibly._

**Charlotte 4:03 PM**

_HE’S PRETTY, ISN’T IT?_

**Me 4:03 PM**

_I don’t like your focus on a person’s physiology, Charlotte._

**Charlotte 4:04 PM**

_P R E T T Y_

**Me 10:30 PM**

_He has nice hair._

**Charlotte 10:35 PM**

_Oh my god, it took you, like what, six hours to admit it. You are totally smitten._

**Charlotte 11:56 PM**

_I’ll take the silence as a yes._

 

* * *

 

He didn’t exactly remember how he met Adrien, though.

He sometimes remember a sloppy, drunken kiss on the lips when he was alone in the library at an early hour, when the man had stormed in and had all but smashed their teeth together. Not very different from the allure Antoine had permit himself when he first saw him at the coffee shop.

Perhaps it was the similarities that had first struck him or because that he was sleep-deprived after two days of law studies, he didn’t pull away instantly. He remembered hating on the taste of alcohol afterward. Every time, after that.

The man had grinned. Maximilien stared.

“Will you tell them that we are together?” Adrien asked, taking his head in his hands. He felt a buzzing behind his skull.

And he thought about Antoine, thought that we are not very close, sir. I don’t know you very well. And he thought about Antoine again. How he would smile and congratulate him, nothing more, nothing less. How it just wouldn’t matter.

“Yeah,” he said. He figured that it wouldn’t matter much to him neither, at the end.

 

* * *

 

Antoine blinked, a little incredulous. Camille’s mug’s broken pieces were the only sound that came out of them.

It was a very very silly thing, but Maximilien felt it was worth it. Antoine’s hands were shaking, just a bit. And suddenly, surprisingly, all this rifle mattered, and somehow worthy of something. Saint-Just had that ability to smile when sunshine didn’t fit. 

 

* * *

 

**Bonbon 6:40 PM**

_Congrats in advance for getting laid! [confetti emoji] [confetti emoji] [confetti emoji]_

_But seriously, should I do the shovel talk to Saint-Just or shall I wait a bit before that?? I mean, Charlotte probably would do it before me, tho._

**Me 6:45 PM**

_Antoine is not my boyfriend, Auguste. Who told you that?_

**Bonbon 6:48 PM**

_WAIT my life was a lie????????_

_Damnit, Charlotte owes me money then. But still, I thought I was betting a lost cause._

**Me 6:50 PM**

_Be this a lesson to you, dear brother. Do not accept any betting about anyone’s love life._

**Bonbon 6:50 PM**

_Ugh yes big brother you are the best You Are The Pure And The Incorruptible._

_Anyway, who am I going to do the shovel talk then??? I mean they better not hurt you, and since it’s not the st-just guy, they better be nicer, like, eat vegetables and serves their cat like a god or something._

**Me 6:52 PM**

_You don’t need to do this, he won’t hurt me, I promise._

**Bonbon 6:53 PM**

_With all due respect, fuck no. I’m gonna do it anyway._

 

* * *

 

Not that he didn’t keep promises, in his defense. But these were things he can’t control, like his father’s departure. Like his bird’s broken wing. Like the bruises on his face that powder couldn’t hide.

The first time he had hit him, it wasn’t that bad. A slap, that was all. He was a bit tired, people were always tired. Maximilien wanted for them to stay friends, after all. That earned another slap in the face along with a confessional and almost speech on his love with Maximilien. How no one could love him as he does. How no one will love him as he will.

But after, there was a pattern that became sickeningly familiar, Adrien always come home late drunk, these days. And he usually needed a voice to remind him that his fists were unused today, and occasionally, a bowl to remind him that he could use this instead of them.

It was tolerable, really. As long it didn’t have go so far as to disturb his friends and his work. He would just work at home if the wounds were too apparent. Adrien usually came only at night, anyway.

But he wanted them to live together so that their wages can supply for him. He had warned him not to see his friends and family. And then, he took his credit card and never returned it again. Maximilien even doubt that his encouragement for his coming out was a scam just to separate his friends from him further.

He was a victim in a case of domestic abuse, he realized after searching so so many hours on the web. He felt stupid to need Google to tell him whatever situation he was in. He didn’t want to grant this such a terrible name. He didn’t think it would matter much if he called it a couple’s fight, nothing more.

He had a plan, he did. He knew Adrien was going to England soon. He could go away, or go back to the Duplay’s mansion, anywhere without anyone noticing. He could live off with the school’s free food for a time. He could do this alone, without any fuzz.

He just have to go to this annual meeting he so often missed, he would dare to at Antoine in the face and talk to Camille with a decent and comfortable setting, and he would return home, prepare his baggage, and go, with or without a car of his own.

 

* * *

 

Or so it goes, more or less.

Here was the list of things that went wrong in a single night:

1) Antoine confessed to him.

2) Camille and Lucile is a thing, now. (Finally.)

3) Antoine confessed to him.

4) Since when Antoine had a car? He never even noticed.

5) Antoine confessed to him.

6) _Antoine confessed to him._

7) Adrien is home.

He was here and holding his phone, actually.

“What is this little game of yours?” Adrien said snarlingly, knuckles white with fury, “Where did you go?”

“I thought you were going to go this morning—“

“Ah I know,” he said, walking around him, steps taunting, “is it for your little boyfriend, who’s called, ah, let me check” he said, scrolling through the screen, “Antoine? Lovely name.”

He scrutinized the contact photo, “A pretty boy, Maxime. Didn’t know you were off to these sorts of fun.”

“He’s my colleague,” Maximilien said, “he’s much more than this, Adrien. Don’t degrade him this way.”

“Oh, I see,” he grinned, like that day in the library, the one which made him want to throw up, “I see. What can you do to a little man like this, huh? You are cheating on me, Maxime. You are abandoning what I have to offer you. I told you, Maxime, you know you are annoying and cold and hard to manage. You know I have taken care of you and all you ever do is running off with boys half of your age.”

“When are you leaving?”

“In two or three days,” he said, grasping Maximilien’s neck with his strong fingers, “and when I come back, you’ll be here or I’ll need to beat the shit out of you again, Maxime. I’m tired of these games.”

He roughly turned his hands on his shoulder, a flutter in his chest. Something fell on the ground.

“A coin,” Adrien remarked indifferently, “it’s okay, dear, I’ll let you keep this one.”

“Tell me, it is head?”

“What?” He snapped, crushing the bones beneath his palms.

“It is head?” 

“Why no, lamb,” he said, “it’s tail.” He stepped on it, causing the miracle to lose all its mirth, “Now, shall we continue what you need to know about yourself before I leave you, Maxime?”

 

* * *

 

And he thought, this is cold. His skin had always been cold and the veins underneath lukewarm. Brount never went cold until he draped on him, hurling like a cat. Antoine touched his cheeks with gentle, easy hands, and he thought again, these are never cold.

I love you so much, he said, after Camille and Antoine left, looking at the bandages and the mirrors of the room. I love you so much I think I might never go cold again. 

 

* * *

 

**Charlotte 8:50 AM**

_Camille contacted me. He gave me the article. Give me your address, Maxime. I don’t want to have it from Camille or Antoine. You need to give it to me._

**Charlotte 8:58 AM**

_Give me your address, please. This is not your fight._

**Charlotte 9:00 AM**

_I’m going to slam this bastard’s face on the wall, Max. Gonna make his face bleed and spike his head on a stick and parade with it._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are my life, liberty and my pursuit of happiness 
> 
> If you caught all the refs i put there you will have my eternall respect citizen


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They all have feelings. Also, Charlotte listens to Britney Spears. Some unrelated literary references are made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, this is back? i still hate it tho. Thank you for sticking with me if you still remember the plot!  
> TW for child abuse at the beginning of the chapter!

 

“So,” Camille says. “This is a good idea.”

Saint-Just remains stoic. There is no need to break your phone when Camille’s face is not even worth it. He fidgets despite himself, “Fuck you, Desmoulins.”

Camille makes a face of pure, utter disgust. “Yeah, no, thank you,” he says. “Let’s keep this PG and get to the real point, which is, _what the actual hell is going on_ and that my article actually helped him, you bastard.”

“Talk about that,” he grits through his teeth, not looking at him. “Talk about what? You realized that you gave him a fucking nightmare? You exposed his— _abuser’s_ crimes, yes, but you have basically drew all his needs in the window which are, not give any details of his personal life to the press? You know that he is planning to get involved in politics, with that kind of exposure, he can’t do anything but run for being the King of what, cabbage land?”

“This is the longest of sentence that I ever heard from you and the most ridiculous one,” he remarks. “Also, a monarchy of any kind does not require mandated free elections.”

“That is,” Antoine sighs, tries not to shake with fear, or anxiety or what. Does it matter. “That is definitely not the point here, Desmoulins.”

It’s been exactly a week since they found out and all they have is a damning article, a pen, and two people that don’t understand how to use them. How are the odds. The audacity of a shit show.

“I know,” Antoine says, in defeat. “I know that you are trying. We all are. And you are... right. The police are investigating this. You caught the attention, you caught everyone’s attention. You are good at that,” and before Camille can protest, “Maximilien does not like it.”

“Are you telling me that we should save his honor instead of his actual life?” Camille does not yell, but it’s close. It’s way too late for this. He forgets for a moment where he is.

“I am not—“

“Then what,” he snaps. “Do you think that is what that will make him miserable for the rest of his life? The fact that he is a victim? Well, too bad, because we are helping him, because he is a victim, Saint-Just, and I hope you fucking know it.”

“He would feel labeled and betrayed!” He balls his fists, finally, finally daring to look into those brown eyes. “You—you are his best friend, why, I don’t know, his tastes are usually better— but he told you not to do anything. And you didn’t listen. You write about it on a paper and showed the whole world what it is about. You had no right to do such a thing.”

“I had to do _something_!”

“We could have told the authorities,” he says, voice soft and tired. “We could have helped without alarming everyone and everything in this goddamn country.”

“As if you know anything,” Camille says, somewhat weaker.

He looks away. Camille falters. He does not hug himself and look away. He does not look away because he is weak. He does not.

They are waiting for Maximilien’s sister. They are waiting for her and not to start a fight. She will be telling her what to do next. She will be here soon. His father’s screams are a distant thing now, they don’t matter, they don’t matter, they don’t matter. He doesn’t fight back when a hand touches his shoulder. Fighting has never worked before.

His father used to say something like this, too.

“Hey,” they don’t matter, they don’t matter, they don’t, “I-I am sorry. Let’s, um, wait on the couch?”

He made something like a normal, noncommittal sound, and sat down, possibly. The voices falter, and the background is filled with that old yellow wallpaper once again. Camille looks at the green tea in front of him with a great, abnormal interest.

He is not used to be reduced to silence with him.

“Is the tea cold?” He asked, because he is not trying to sound smart. This is stupid. “I can go and make another one.” Because treating guests with respect or whatever, he adds to himself, and it somehow make sense. “There’s some tea left.”

“No, no, no, it’s f-fine,” Camille says, that’s one too many no to be adequate, but he is Camille Desmoulins, after all. “Let’s just,” he stops, tries again, “just wait.”

He stares for awhile at something, the air, the tea, the paper wall, nods, settles back into the couch some more, an whole arm’s length from Camille. He is playing with the tea cup.

He says, not without thinking, but the sound is really, really annoying, “I have called the police when it was too much.”

“...you did?”

He shrugged, “It was the more logical thing to do. He tried to rape me and my sisters,” he says. “I didn’t want Maximilien to bear the burden to having the whole world’s eye on your back when you are barely surviving.”

“I thought it’s because you loved him,” Camille says.

“That too,” he answers, looking down at Camille’s eyes in the cup’s reflection. “That’s also a factor, yeah.”

 

* * *

 

**Maxime’s sister (11:20 PM)**

_What the hell is this traffic._

**Maxime’s sister (11:21 PM)**

_I am going to hit all the cars and let them fly because I NEED TO GET THROUGH._

_Britney Spears is singing in the radio, why can she have a hit when I can’t._

**Maxime’s sister (11:23 PM)**

_Wait. Is it illegal to hit cars._

**Me (11:25 PM)**

_Miss Robespierre, with all due respect, please do not text while you are driving._

 

* * *

 

The silence that preceded it was almost worse than the fury that ensued.

“That was not a good idea, Camille,” she says, after putting her boots away and sipping the tea that none of them have drank. “We could have solved this in a less... royal-family way.”

Antoine is too tired to feel the victory singing under his veins, but it’s close. Camille grumbles something under his breath.

“He send me the address,” she says. “It means that now he is safe enough and that he have his phone with him.”

“I didn’t see the fucker when we went to Maxime,” Camille grimaces. “I don’t get why wouldn’t he leave the place, like, immediately and set the house on fire or something.”

“He’s scared,” Antoine says quietly to his tea. “He thinks he will get himself and all of us in trouble if he ever leave the house.”

If Camille noticed the shakings, he has the decency of keeping it to himself. “Then what do we do now?”

Charlotte finishes her tea, and slams her fist on the counter. Antoine flinches and curses himself for it. “I am calling him and get his ass out there.”

“Put it on speaker so that we can all convince him,” Camille proposes. Charlotte nods. She is about to pull out her phone when he speaks.

“Don’t do that,” he says. “At least don’t put it on speaker. It will pressure him further to the edge and at the end he won’t even accept your call.”

“And why is that, Saint-Just?” Charlotte asks, frowning. She doesn’t seem to be in the mood to argue. “My brother is trapped alone, possibly without a care with fucking wounds on his body, it’s his best chance to get away.”

“Yes, of course,” he gazes at the yellow wallpaper. “I want to help Maximilien like any of you. But you can’t threaten him with words now, and three people on the same side is only going to make himself recoil to somewhere he thinks is safe.”

She looks at him carefully. “We have to call him at least. We don’t now when Adrien will come back.”

“Let me speak,” he says. “I will convince him.”

“Well, convince me first,” she says, crosses her arms. “Why should I leave my brother’s fate to someone like you?”

He knows she is only being protective. It has nothing personal in her bite. She may be right that he is not even the good candidate for this. They don’t matter, they don’t matter, they don’t matter–

“Leave him to it, Charlotte,” Camille, surprisingly, puts a hand on his shoulder. Maybe his shakings are really this apparent. “I trust him.”

“You two don’t always get along,” she remarks.

“I trust him for this and this only,” he says. “Other than that, I wouldn’t mind dumping him in the garbage can where he belongs.”

Charlotte’s eyes dart from him to Camille, piercing. “Let him speak. I want to know what he has to say.”

“I,” he shuts his eyes. This doesn’t matter anymore. This doesn’t matter anymore. “I have taken years of therapy since I was sixteen. I know how it works. It-it may not work, of course.” He adds quickly, “I just think that after hearing people talking after me, it will be easier for me to talk after them.”

The room is painfully silent, again. And if she has any eyes like her brother (as intimidating as his), he wouldn’t know, because the ground is so much safer to look at right now.

“He is being through a lot, miss Robespierre,” he says, at last. “I don’t want to make him overwhelmed by all-all of this. I don’t want to make him uncomfortable—“

Before he knew what the _fuck_ is happening, Charlotte _fucking_ Robespierre is wrapping her arms around him and squeezing him tight. He could be sleeping with a cow and that would have made more sense. He freezes and gets a grip on himself after she pulls away. He reaches to his earrings, touching it, around and around.

“Okay,” she says. “Okay,” and hands him the phone. He can’t see her face.

There must be pity in it.

Camille says, “Be careful,” and the world is upside down. You know something is wrong when Camille is the voice of reason.

He looks at the phone. “What is the passcode?”

“My brother’s birthday,” she says. “Surely, you know it.”

And shamefully enough, he knows. Of course he knows. He would remember his death day and gladly die with him, not being dramatic or anything.

He dials, because he knows his phone number too. Three rings and it answers. The first sound makes him remember of spring.

“Charlotte,” Maximilien says, “I have made my choice, you should stay out of this.”

“Sorry, it’s me again,” Antoine answers. The line went dead. Camille has his face in both of his hands, and for the first time, he couldn’t even blame him for it.

When he tries to call again, Maximilien says, after the first ring, “Antoine.”

It feels like the discussion they had in the rain, facing a door. Except this time it isn’t Frozen and none of them can flash-forward this odd scene. It is maybe bound to happen.

“Maximilien,” he replies, because he can’t be his therapist. Not now, not ever. “How are you?”

“You are not here to talk about that,” he answers, the exasperation sipping through. “You are here to put yourself in danger and I will ruin your life.”

“I am here to pull yourself out of danger, and you are already doing that,” he stutters, not meaning the latter thing. He is not Camille Desmoulins, for god’s sake. His therapist would say that he is being a bad therapist. “I am going to come to your place, and get you to somewhere safe.”

Way to go, he thinks to himself. This is the tone to address someone currently having traumatic experience. Camille is crushing his shoulder with his hand.

“I am not going anywhere, Antoine.”

“I am not asking you to,” he says. “Just stay there, let me get to you, pick you up, and we can talk about other complications and how crazy is it later.”

“In any other time it would have sound like a date.”

“This isn’t one,” he agrees. “I just want to hear your affirmation before I go and pick you up.”

There’s a short inhale from the phone, then, “You would have come here regardless of my agreement,” he whispers a little too loudly.

“No, I will not. I promise,” his hand holding the machine slips from the sweat. “I won’t do anything you don’t want to.”

Camille is yelling behind, Saint-Just can’t care for him now. Charlotte is still staring, not moving an inch from the couch.

“Why are you even doing this, Antoine?” He says, “I am not worth–“

“Stop,” he panics, a lose line. “Stop, _stop_.”

He can’t do this. None of this works if his friend doesn’t at least try. What, he is not sure. If he wants to be free, he is.

“Is it difficult,” Antoine begins, ends, the lines tangle, “to make you believe that I am willing to die for you?”

“Yes,” he says. “You can’t come, Antoine. Don’t come here, in this context, I am Basil.”

Antoine has a lump in his throat. He is _not_ talking about the studies. He is _not_ talking about the project he has made on Oscar fucking Wilde in this fucking moment. He is simultaneously enchanted and repulsed by the idea that his life might be only a reference that went a little too far.

“I am not going to _kill_ you, Maximilien.”

“Dorian Gray doesn’t age,” he simply says, not denying or replying to what is important, and everything is important. “But you are, Antoine. What you are doing here is stabbing yourself in your old, wrinkled painting.”

“What will come will come,” he trembles. “I don’t care.”

“You might get hurt.”

“I don’t care.”

“You might hurt _me_ , Antoine,” he says, one last attempt.

“You might hurt yourself more,” and somehow, that is the last straw.

“You like me,” Maximilien says, uncharacteristically angry. “ _You like me._ ”

“That doesn’t matter for now,” he says quickly. And it never will. “Will you let me pick you up?”

“You promised me that you won’t do anything.”

“If you say so,” he says. “That’s why I am asking for your permission now.”

“Answer me first,” Maximilien retorts. “You like me.”

Camille is either trying to commit murder to the air or make love to it. Charlotte rests her head on the head on the couch, her eyes flicker to his, and beam. She knows. Antoine suddenly respects therapists more than he should.

“That’s hardly a question.”

“I don’t understand,” he says. It sounds like he is not breathing, and Antoine is worried. Is he even hydrated enough to talk this much? If he hasn’t a spare key, what would happen?

“Well, why Basil loved Dorian Gray this much?” he says, trying not to feel the two pair of eyes burning through him.

“Because Wilde is converting through him the idea of estheticism and perfection as a state of beauty,” Maximilien answers, almost mechanically. “Because he is his art, and art is always beautiful.”

“Maxime,” he says. “Sometimes there are no bigger reasons, Basil loved him because he was in love. There’s no all sorts of love. I am in love, Maxime. For no other reason because I am me and you are you. And I don’t think I can reason with that.”

A beat. Two. “Will you let me pick you up?”

“Yeah,” Maximilien lets out what seem like a mumble, “be careful.”

When he hangs up, he thinks, maybe because he is already half-livid or just numb, that he hears Maximilien repeating, that in this context, he really _is_ Basil.

 

* * *

 

**His Sons Would Be Des Moulins (1:01 AM)**

_so, max agreed._

**Me (1:02 AM)**

_I am literally in front of you._

**His Sons Would Be Des Moulins (1:02 AM)**

_at least i won’t be seeing your face when i am talking to you_

**His Sons Would Be Des Moulins (1:03 AM)**

_also,_

_thank you_

**Me (1:04 AM)**

_Are you... thanking me?_

**His Sons Would Be Des Moulins (1:04 AM)**

_don’t get fucking used to it you asshole_

_just this time_

 

* * *

 

If Charlotte cried during their way to Maximilien’ house, it is not no one’s business. He doesn’t mention his own burning eyes either.

 

* * *

 

Maximilien is in the hospital.

When Antoine found him, he was still sitting on that chair, as if he has never moved an inch since. He chided him for bringing others, and more or less collapsed on Antoine, his pulse weak, but steady enough to be alive.

Which is troubling.

Not that Maximilien doesn’t consent to put himself in a hospital, but he isn’t exactly awake enough to do so. Antoine is almost glad for it for him not putting up a fight, and immediately felt guilty afterwards.

Charlotte is weary of hospital. “Maximilien never liked being here,” she says. “Our mother died in a hospital. I don’t remember much, but he was old enough.”

The doctor, in his impeccable diplomacy or professionalism or whatever, says in her big, white coat, “We have made a first inspection. The patient’s state is not critical, but he does have broken ribs. They aren’t serious enough to shatter any internal organs, but it is a good choice that you have choose to bring him here.”

“Doctor,” he says, because he is Maximilien’s friend. He is qualified and deserves to ask questions about his friend’s state of mind. “Will these wounds affect him mentally? Will them burden him?”

She turns to him, adjusts her glasses. “I don’t want to assume things, because you have been vague at stating what exactly happened to him,” she says. “But we will never know a patient’s reaction before they are awake. It is different from each patient.”

“Okay,” he says. Charlotte’s hand is gripping his. “Thank you, doctor.”

“If you have any other questions, don’t hesitate to ask them,” she answers, gives him a few papers. “Now, are you married with the patient? Because if so, I will need you to sign these documents...”

Charlotte is taking the papers before he can deny anything. “I will sign them. I am his sister.”

“Of course,” she says, “you are allowed to visit him, albeit I might recommend it for only a short amount of time. As I said, he might be having some hidden wounds, and we do not know the patient’s mental state.” and goes to her other doctor related business. The smell of the hospital nauseates him, but he is sure that this isn’t the only reason.

“I can’t see him,” she says, her hand still so, so heavy on his. “I can’t see him now. I can’t.”

“You don’t have to,” he tries to soothe, like he always does with his younger sisters. He looks at Camille, who shakes his head slowly. “I will go to check on him, okay?”

“I am not weak,” she snaps.

“You are not,” he says. “But some memories don’t fade away, don’t they?”

And so her lips tremble a little, and nod. She has seen her mother’s death as clearly as Maximilien had. As clear as day.

“I will go,” he says. “Don’t worry.”

Before he goes to Maximilien’s room, he turns to see Camille’s head on Charlotte’s shoulder, the former soundly asleep after a day’s work. And he thinks that Camille deserves the nap, just this time. 

 

* * *

 

Maximilien still looks, after all these years, like a summer’s day.

Surprisingly, he is awake.

“You are awake,” he says. This isn’t exactly an observation.

“I am,” Maximilien’s voice cracks, and Antoine reaches down to give him a cup of water, which he accepts gladly.

The sound of water is the only thing that’s heard. The humming of the machines is somehow light and almost inexistent. This chain of events is starting to confuse him, just like everything else.

“You saved me,” he says simply. His lips still parched and a cut where he doesn’t need to know why it is there, “Antoine. Do you hear me?”

“I didn’t save you,” Antoine looks down and on at the green eyes. Sea-wine. “How are you?”

Maximilien takes his hand, the tubes. How thin, “Antoine, this is a game that you are gambling. You are putting yourself in danger.”

“Your life isn’t a gamble,” he retorts, too afraid to do anything else.

“Well, _Dorian_ ,” he smiles, the bloodless lips forming a soft line on his face. Maximilien is blinking rapidly. Something is wrong. “Yours isn’t one either.”

“It’s going to be fine,” he says, trying not to press to hard in his hand, in his touch. And because he can’t say I love you now, he repeats, “I promise.”

“It is very dangerous to promise things you have no control over, my friend.”

“I promise,” he says again and again, until the taste of it sounds normal and right and okay. “I promise.”

He could have said so much more, that he is sorry to not realize this further, that he is sorry that he loves him the wrong way, that he is sorry, and that this, this feeling of his hand on his, this is something he will understand he wants to pull away.

His mind panics for a second and Antoine does pull away. How can he touch him when he clearly doesn’t want to be touched?

“I should leave,” he says.

Maximilien’s hair falls all around his face, he drops his gaze, curls his hand. There’s a chuckle when he reaches to the door.

Is it so selfish to stay when the other person needs space? Yes.

But Maximilien is saying something so he stays a little, treading on his way outside.

“What did you say?”

“I said,” Maximilien’s voice echoes in this small room. “How many times are you going to save me?”

He doesn’t understand. He has never saved him. Maximilien Robespierre doesn’t need savings. The tubes. The smell of the white paint. Maximilien.

 _Maximilien_.

“As many times as you did for me,” Antoine says, then. “As many times as it takes.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love feedbacks as much as Antoine loves his bruised boyfriend it increases 100% my update schedule


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